


Vinny runs out the clock

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Vinny gets a life [29]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 22:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5843851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas always likes it best when the last game of the season is at home. That you can raise your sticks and thank the crowd for supporting you all season and not then play another regular game two days later. That feels weird. This time it is at home, which is good, and Thomas is starting it, which is great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny runs out the clock

Getting a house in order is really hard when you’re away more than you’re home. Especially since Thomas has set himself a deadline — the last thing he wants to be dealing with when the playoffs arrive is dumb things like curtains or the fact he doesn’t have a spatula. He might not be on the ice in, like, body, but the playoffs need his sole focus the way they need the sole focus of everyone in the room; players, coaching staff, trainers. It becomes obsession, even moreso than during the season, and it always feels worth it until you lose. Even after, really.

Sandro invites him over before practice “I want you to come make us breakfast”, he says, actually, and Thomas is grateful to go. It isn’t that he doesn’t like his place so much as he’s forgotten how to live alone. Breakfast feels lonely after he had Carms backseat cooking on his ass for weeks. 

“When’s your housewarming?” Sandro asks, while Thomas scrambles eggs. “I’m going to get you a plant.”

“Already happened,” Thomas says. “There was beer and pizza and everything.”

“Pfft,” Sandro says. “That wasn’t a housewarming. That was me and Sylvie trying to keep our appetites while you and Petrov were all gooey eyed.”

“Gooey eyed,” Thomas repeats, and Sylvie murmurs, “Your appetite seemed fine,” into her coffee. Sandro ate half a pizza. Thomas is with Sylvie there.

“Gooey eyed,” Sandro says again, pointing at Thomas for emphasis. 

“That’s a gross image,” Thomas says.

“It’s a metaphor, Frenchie,” Sandro tells him primly.

“It’s a _gross_ metaphor,” Thomas says. “Are our eyeballs melting into goo?”

“I don’t want eggs anymore,” Sylvie pipes up. “Thank you.”

“Frenchies,” Sandro says, with emphasis again, and they pelt him with the nearest available objects — for Sylvie, a hair tie tugged off her wrist, for Thomas, an eggy spatula.

“Ow,” Sandro says, presumably about the spatula, because Thomas doesn’t think the hair tie had a lot of weight behind it.

“Bring that back,” Thomas says. “I need to make the eggs.”

“Fucker,” Sandro mutters, but he gives it back to Thomas after washing it and everything. Thomas gives him an extra big helping in thanks, and also because Sylvie is standing by her ‘no eggs’ decision. He makes her extra toast, sweet with honey, in apology for the gooey eyeball thing.

Meg repeats Sandro’s question about a housewarming the next time he calls her. “Not until playoffs are over,” Thomas says. Maybe when the Fourniers are back. He likes that idea.

“Can I stay with you if I come up for them, though?” Megan asks.

“Duh,” Thomas says.

*

The season runs itself out, and the Habs play like they have been all season: more wins than losses, usually tight, one goal games, their defence and goaltending making up for often sporadic offence. If Connors hadn’t been between the pipes most of the games this season, they wouldn’t be sitting where they are, maybe wouldn’t be sitting in contention at all. Thomas feels guilty even thinking that, like he’s betraying Fourns, but Chicago isn’t going to the postseason, and they have more going for them offensively than Montreal.

“Come home, come home,” Thomas says on Skype, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s multitasking making dinner and talking and so is Fourns. Thomas bets Fournier’s food is going to be tastier though. He misses Fournier food.

“Not until the girls are done school,” Fourns tells him, then, “don’t give me that look, Vincent.”

“I’m not giving you a look,” Thomas lies. “Can you come home for a weekend? A game?”

“I can’t cheer for you, buddy,” Fournier says. “C’mon.”

“You can in your heart,” Thomas mutters, and he can hear Chloe laughing at him in the background.

“Not even in my heart,” Fourns says, and then frowns when Chloe laughs some more and calls him a liar.

*

Thomas always likes it best when the last game of the season is at home. That you can raise your sticks and thank the crowd for supporting you all season and not then play another regular game two days later. That feels weird. This time it is at home, which is good, and Thomas is starting it, which is great. 

Thomas is starting for obvious reasons. Competition for fourth seed was fierce, but they secured it last night, while idle, because the Capitals lost in overtime. They don’t know who they’re playing yet — that depends on the results of two other games — so they can’t quite prepare for the face of the enemy or anything, which sucks. It won’t be Ottawa again this year, at least, and Lapointe’s been freaky cheerful since that was established. It’s between Washington and Hartford, who are neck and neck, points wise, two behind Montreal. Montreal has a better ROW than either, so they’re safe, they get home ice advantage.

It doesn’t make sense for Connors to play this game. They need him rested for the playoffs. This game is fundamentally meaningless, especially because the Devils aren’t in the playoff picture at all. Connors still isn’t happy about it, but if Thomas’ happiness was tied to Jeff Connors’ he’d be the most miserable person in the entire world, so he just takes the opportunity to enjoy his last game of the season (barring injury or terrible play from Connors, neither of which Thomas would ever hope for), and try for a win, because maybe the game doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things or whatever, but it matters to Thomas, and it matters to the people who paid for tickets and came hoping to celebrate a win to close out a good season. 

It’s a one goal game, but not the kind of one goal games Connors has been pulling, the 1-0, 2-1; tight goaltending games with a lot of blocked shots and sacrifice. Anton’s legs are black and blue more often than not, even with the shot protectors, the padding, but he hasn’t missed a single game, even though sometimes he’d limp his way off the ice, walk it off in the hallway while Thomas would ignore the game for a minute to check if he was walking down the tunnel to go to the dressing room or just to shake out the pins and needles, resolve it into a lower, lesser ache before he put himself in front of the puck again.

Not to say there aren’t a lot of blocked shots in this one — Thomas thinks Anton blocks at least three headed his way, if not more. Even so, when time runs out it’s 5-4. New Jersey didn’t bother with an empty net — once you’re out of contention worse is probably better for draft purposes. He can’t imagine the players liked it, though.

The fans have been on their feet since the last minute of play was announced, and they stay standing, the Bell Centre ringing with noise as the Habs get off the bench to give Thomas his helmet pats and hugs, and then raise their sticks to the crowd. It’s a good ending. Thomas thinks it was a good game to finish off his season, even if he could have played better, even if the win was more thanks to the forwards bailing him out with goal support, the defence sacrificing their bodies to do the same. 

“How’s your ankle?” Thomas asks Anton when they’re shuffling back to the room. He’d gone straight to the bench after stopping a slapshot from the point. Thomas hadn’t seen it at all, and he wasn’t in the right place for a positional save. It probably would have gone in.

“Enh,” Anton says, waving a hand. He’s putting weight on it, so he probably isn’t lying.

“Thanks,” Thomas says.

“It’s my job, bud,” Anton says, but pats Thomas’ back in a silent ‘you’re welcome’. 

While there’s a bit of congratulatory lightheartedness in the room, it’s muted. Hartford’s going to overtime, which will determine whether it’s the Capitals or the Whalers they face, and a lot of guys are paying attention to the TV in the corner. Thomas keeps an eye on it — Hartford loses in the shoot out, which drops them to sixth seed. No Petrov house (mansion) visits in Thomas’ immediate future.

No one’s planning to go out — they’ve got a playoff series to rest up for — and the closest thing to exciting Thomas hears anyone planning on is Sanders inviting Hartley over to play video games and drink a few beers.

Thomas hasn’t gotten undressed beyond the semi-complicated process of getting his jersey off, got distracted by the OT, and he’s a little surprised to see Anton’s already showered. He figured Tony would have for sure stuck around to see if he had to play hated Hartford. He waddles over to Anton’s stall, and Anton looks up, hair falling in wet clumps on his forehead. Thomas pushes it back for him, and no one bats an eye except for Anton.

“Come over?” Thomas asks. He kind of thought it was assumed — they’ve always finished out the season together, usually in the kind of low key night Sanders and Hartley are planning, but if Anton’s rushing through changing, maybe it wasn’t.

“Yeah?” Anton asks.

Thomas nods.

“Hurry up then,” Anton says, abrupt.

Thomas pokes him in the forehead. “Can’t rush genius,” he says. “We don’t have to play Hartford.”

If he didn’t know Anton so well he wouldn’t see the way he relaxes. “Would’ve crushed them anyway,” Anton says.

_In Vlad’s rink,_ Thomas doesn’t say. Thomas can’t really compare — he had to play in Sudbury in the OHL, and it sucks to have your town cheer against you, he knows that feeling, but Hartford raised Vladimir’s number to the rafters two years ago. If Anton looks up when they’re there, he’ll see his dad’s name. His own name. Thomas thinks that’s probably different.

“What’re you waiting for,” Anton says. “You’ve still got your fucking skates on, hurry it up.”

Thomas pokes his forehead again, just because it’s there and he can. He’s got a red mark from his helmet that’ll disappear soon, but in the meantime, it’s very pokeable. 

“You’re a brat,” Anton says, but he’s starting to smile.

Thomas doesn’t say _Your brat_. They’re in a room full of their guys. There’s still a bit of media hanging around. Besides, he likes to think he’s the sort of guy who learns his lessons the first time around, and he likes the smile curling the corner of Anton’s mouth.

Instead, he pokes Anton the red mark one more time, and darts away, laughing, when Anton reaches for him, presumably to give him a swat. He ends up overbalancing in his pads and landing on his ass.

“You deserved that,” Anton says, above him. 

Thomas grins up at him. “Gimme a hand up,” he demands.

“No way,” Anton says, and then, with a loud sigh of reluctance, “only because you need to hurry up,” and offers Thomas a hand. 

Thomas takes it, and then Anton’s other hand, because he needs both of them to haul Thomas up, pads and all. 

“Need to work on your upper body, dude, that’s pathetic,” Sandro shouts.

“Shut up, Carms,” Thomas says, overlapping Anton’s “Fuck off, Carmen,” to an offended squawk from Sandro, which gets them both laughing. When Thomas has shucked his gear and grabbed his shower stuff, he looks over to find Anton half dressed and still smiling, and he has to walk double time to the showers to avoid the urge to go over to Tony and beg him to keep smiling like that always.


End file.
